


Unguarded

by Phosphorite



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Teenage delinquents, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-09 00:43:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1962489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phosphorite/pseuds/Phosphorite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every morning he shows up at the gates, sparkling with confidence, wearing the gauze on his arm and the contusions on his skin like the season’s newest accessory.</p>
<p>[teen delinquent AU, birthday present for marta]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unguarded

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pendulum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pendulum/gifts).



> There's two things I love in life: Aokise and teen delinquents. Just so happens that a certain loser (who is to blame for the former, really) expressed her burning need for the combination of the two, so what better excuse than to write something short on her birthday?
> 
> If someone else enjoys it, too, then all the better.

He meets Kise Ryouta for the first time in the second spring of junior high.

It’s sort of an accident – well, if  _accident_  is synonymous with  _it’s most definitely not_  – because when he zooms in on the familiar school uniform in the distance, Aomine simply cannot help himself.

The greys and the whites, everyone knows these ugly colours stand for Kaijo jr. high; more specifically, everyone knows Kaijo jr. high stands for rich losers, and the blond kid driving down the street on a fancy new bike, well, he looks like the biggest loser of all.

Even before the words  _Think it’s possible to hit him at this distance?_  leave Imayoshi’s mouth, Aomine knows he’s game.

The basketball does a beautiful backspin in the air before it crashes right on the side of the kid’s face, sending him sprawling over the handles of his bike. The sound is like something out of a movie scene; gears screeching, metal clashing, ground thumping as he topples onto the pavement, and it’s probably the funniest thing Aomine has ever seen in his life.

Wakamatsu’s hysterical guffaws ring out on the courtyard like a preordained laugh track. The blond kid doesn’t take long to stagger back to his feet, and the expression on Imayoshi’s face goes from mildly amused to pensive: the kid is clutching onto his arm at a funny angle, but what stains his glare is not pain.

It all happens very quickly, then.

In the time it takes for the kid to close the distance, to the moment where his shin connects with Aomine’s side with a swift, determined kick, what Aomine remembers feeling is first and foremost surprise; agony clouds his vision, knees slump onto the ground, and he’s pretty sure he can literally hear something  _crack_.

In stupefied wonder, Aomine watches the kid whirl around and limp back to his bike, where his face contorts in a grimace every time he tries to lift his hand.

_I think you broke his arm_ , Imayoshi comments.

_I think he broke my rib_ , Aomine replies.

Somehow, he knows that it won’t be the last time.

 

 

 

He meets Kise Ryouta for the second time on the first day of high school.

It’s been almost two years, but that blond hair is recognizable all the way from across the assembly hall. Naturally, the possibility initially strikes Aomine as impossible: for someone from Kaijo jr. high to end up at Teiko seems ridiculous at best, because calling Teiko a school is in and of itself a joke.

Half the students wander off before the opening ceremonies finish, while the rest make a commendable effort at kicking off right underneath the faculty’s nose. From their previous encounter, Aomine doesn’t expect the Blond Kid to look unnerved, but the blatant boredom on his face still catches Aomine off guard.

The other first years bark with a strained edge while waiting for the slightest trigger to unleash their nerves, but an aura of indifference shields Blond Kid from their desperate abandon. Whether it’s mere disinterest or sheer arrogance, Aomine cannot say; all he knows is that bearing witness to it somehow really, really pisses him off.

_How many of these losers do you think you could beat up before the day is done_ , Wakamatsu asks him in passing, but Aomine isn’t listening because he only wants to beat up one.

Afterwards, there’s no point in skulking around; the rooftop stretches on as a stage made for dramatic confrontations, horizon laid out like a postcard in a novelty store. The predictability of the scene might be sort of annoying, but not only is Aomine terrible at being self-referential, he’s also entirely too lazy to care.

Of course he finds Blond Kid smoking by the heaters. Of course there’s a spark of recognition and surprise that dawns on that infuriatingly delicate face; it reminds Aomine of the posters Satsuki used to hang up on her walls before she traded idols for power, and it kind of annoys him even more.

People like this guy don’t belong in places like Teiko.

People like Aomine, and Wakamatsu, and that weird fucking giant in class C, they–– they belong in places like Teiko; people who only operate in absolutes, operate in shades of grey, or don’t operate anything at all.

Maybe, this is why Aomine asks before he leaps.

_What I’m doing here?_  Blond Kid repeats, sounding unusually perplexed; his golden brows knit together in thought, before that familiar indifference sets upon his feigned smile.

_I guess I was bored. I guess I just wanted a challenge. I guess I just didn’t care._

Were he a smarter man, Aomine might stop to think why these reasons annoy him with their superficial arrogance, as much as they undeniably parallel his own; might not mistake the sudden rush of energy for disdain, might not act on impulse, might still his hand.

Or he might not; because the speed at which Blond Kid counters his fist belies any element of surprise, reveals just the slightest trace of intensity underneath that bored facade, and sends them both staggering out of balance.

_I don’t think_ , Aomine says, something reminiscent bubbling up in the recesses of his chest,  _That you can afford not to care_.

(It probably shouldn’t make him feel so smug to catch the flash of uncertainty that seeps out onto the space between them, but the smoke dies on Blond Kid’s lips as his eyes widen with awe, and it feels like a beginning and an end.)

A dislocated shoulder, split lip, and a long gash on the side of his temple later, Aomine cracks his shoulder blades back and tilts his head at the disheveled young man braced against the ground.

_Guess I won’t make that modeling gig this weekend after all, huh_ , the guy says and spits out blood.

When he looks up at Aomine he’s smiling.

 

 

 

Technically, Aomine never loses.

He hangs onto this fact with subdued pride, even if gauging winners and losers seems awfully moot when he also goes home bruised each night, an aching constellation mapping his body like a fractured kiss.

Still, he’s always the last one standing; his lungs may scream in agony and craning his neck might feel like bending solid iron, but even when the simple act of wiping blood off the corner of his eye ransacks his entire body with shudders, Aomine needs no-one to steady his hand.

No, Aomine never loses.

But perhaps, it would be closer to the truth to say that this is only because Kise Ryouta never gives up.

_It’s not over yet_ , he says, time and time again, with a grin that unnerves and overwhelms Aomine all at once; since the day on the rooftop, that smile sticks to Kise’s lips like the wounds that spill over the side of his mouth.

This naïve energy is a stark contrast to the cockiness and downright manipulative charm that oozes out of Kise at school, twisting other, far more gullible first years around his finger to bear the brunt of whichever hotshot takes issue with his pretty face; it’s obvious that the only thing keeping Kise from actually being dangerous is the fact that he’s also not very smart.

_You’re not very smart, either_ , Wakamatsu points out one day, sitting in an abandoned clubroom during lunch, break, or any of the classes they’re skipping,  _Why do you waste time on that guy when you could try taking on the school? Kirisaki Daiichi won’t be around forever, and you could easily run this place._

_Eh_ , Aomine replies, and it’s difficult to communicate his reasons in words more elaborate than that; he understands Wakamatsu’s frustration, but the two of them also stand in different leagues. Aomine doesn’t suppose there’s anyone who could truly beat him at his game, but actual territorial domination takes leadership and effort; neither of these is something he has much ambition for, and most of the school already knows messing with him is far more trouble than it’s worth.

Yet no amount of self preservation instinct or logic ever seems to keep Kise Ryouta at bay. Every morning he shows up at the gates, sparkling with confidence, wearing the gauze on his arm and the contusions on his skin like the season’s newest accessory.

Aomine doesn’t know what madness drives him on, any more than he understands what makes it so _fun_  to pull Kise back to his feet after knocking the shit out of him each afternoon; but when the cuts paint away the boredom on that face, when Kise laughs through a set of teeth as bloody as his own, a part of Aomine almost feels like he’s––

_It’s cute that you’ve made a friend_ , Satsuki says as the dark pieces of tapioca trickle down her straw one cloudy Wednesday later.

Aomine kind of wants to tell her to fuck off, before he remembers that he also wants to  _live_ ; you might take the girl out of Touou but you can’t take Touou out of the girl, and Momoi Satsuki knows roughly fourteen and a half different ways to kill a grown man.

_We’re not friends_ , he settles for instead, and Satsuki casts him a Look; her smile is sweet like tangerine, eyes sharp like switchblade, and it reminds Aomine once more why people like her and Imayoshi are the ones who made it out of this shithole of a life.

_Congratulations, then,_  she says, and the fondness in her voice is almost ominous in tone. _You’ve just invented the world’s most drawn out form of foreplay_.

 

 

 

It’s really just about delaying the inevitable, after that.

In the days and weeks that follow, parts of Teiko go down like a colourful firework display; every so often Aomine catches glimpses of the turf war raging on around him, in the dysfunctional boyband that is Kirisaki Daiichi and Hanamiya Makoto trying to wreck havoc on unsuspecting first years who have yet to learn their place.

Amidst the chaos, he’ll pass the purple giant in the hallway, and feel a trace of kinship in the detachment that trails his wake; not a single soul dares touch him either, not after the kid who ended up in ICU for trashing the only working snack vending machine. Rumour has it the giant actually aces all his exams whenever he bothers showing up for tests at all, but no genuine motivation ever sparks his eye; sometimes Aomine wonders if the guy is a zombie – or simply waiting for someone, a person who was supposed to come along but never did.

_Were you waiting for me?_  Kise asks him after school, tilting his head with an air of mischievous dare; Aomine scrunches up his face, but it’s but a feeble attempt to pretend like it’s not also true.

Whether it matters that it is or not, well, that’s another question altogether.

The infuriating thing about Kise is that it probably doesn’t matter either way.

There are moments Aomine swears he can detect genuine frustration behind the way Kise’s mouth curves in a childlike pout; but his honesty is as fluid as the balance of power in these halls, and Aomine would be a fool not to notice.

(For months on end he has not lost once, but this does not mean he has truly ever won. The game isn’t over until one of them forfeits it, and Aomine’s not sure if it’s possible to survive it with both his bones and heart intact.)

That afternoon, their beat is out of sync.

Or maybe it’s just him, his beat, caught on a haphazard thought as his knee catches Kise by the stomach and sends him stumbling into a pile of empty cans; the sound reminds him of a movie scene, metal clashing, ground thumping, but it’s far from the funniest thing Aomine has seen in his life.

He’s tired of this.

_Come on_.

He reaches out a hand.

_I’ll show you how to fix yourself up._

The gesture is met with mild suspicion, but soon makes way for a strange kind of relief; relief morphs into curiosity, curiosity into expectancy, and their footsteps that echo in the desolate nurse’s office once more resound in sync.

_I bet you don’t know how to deal with contusions properly. I bet you never let anything heal. I bet–– you don’t even know the right way to bandage up your sides._

Aomine’s fingertips burn on contact when he pushes up Kise’s shirt; the flinch that reverberates under his touch might be a flinch, might be laughter, but doesn’t make Kise pull away.

_You’re such a liar, Aominecchi. That’s not how you tend to cracked ribs at all._

And Aomine wants to tell him, then, that should Kise use such a dumb ass nickname again, he’ll surely discover ways to clock him out on sight; wants to tell him that Kise doesn’t know anything, because Aomine’s been practicing this ever since the day Kise first broke his ribs; but the truth is that it  _is_  a lie, that it’s nothing but a half-hearted attempt to give Kise a moment to seize – which he does, beautifully, by grabbing Aomine’s wrist and reaching out to yank his lips between his teeth.

He’s almost surprised to realize that it really doesn’t hurt any less.

None of it–– is any easier, because the urgency that sinks his fingers in the small of Kise’s back scrapes on his nerves like a gash; the heaviness of the unwieldy kiss sucker punches the air out of his lungs; and maybe in a different world, both of them might be able to communicate their feelings with more than desperate cues and misplaced apathy, but––

––there’s a light in Kise’s eyes that he  _knows_  he doesn’t simply imagine, and it soothes and tears open all of Aomine’s half-healed wounds at once.

 

 

 

_Shit. Did I do that?_

In the dim light of the evening, the single bruise that extends from Kise’s left shoulder blade to the bridge of his pelvis looks like a faded galaxy.

Kise’s elbows push up for balance, and in the glow of his phone the colours distort with an artificial hue.

_Some. Not all of it, though._

Aomine’s fingers on his spine come to an abrupt still.

_The fuck––_

His words trail off when Kise nudges their foreheads together; it’s probably intended as a light nuzzle, but somehow ends up smacking Aomine square in the face.

(It catches them both by surprise for the seconds it takes for stars to spin around in Aomine’s eyes, but when Kise speaks anew, he sounds composed.)

_Calm down. The guy I copied that hook kick from–– he hasn’t come to school in two weeks. Besides, did you think I could afford not to care?_

For a moment, Aomine says nothing.

Maybe there is nothing at all to say.

Except––

_This is crazy._

Kise’s eyes widen, and as the incoming messages flood his phone, their radiance reflects in his gaze; there’s something far more intimate to that stare than Aomine knows how to deal with, and he finds himself covering it with the entirety of his hand.

_You’re not a lost cause._

For the first time in weeks, Aomine’s constitution feels weary with the strain of aggression; if he closed his eyes, he might never wake up, and the ironic part is that it might also not be such a waste.

But then Kise’s fingers snake around his arm, tugging it down with persistent defiance, and his eyes are as unimpressed as they are patient; his voice comes out low, from a place of honesty that Aomine cannot remember ever having heard pass his lips.

_Neither are you_ , Kise says, and suddenly Aomine feels like laughing.

His ribs ache with every tremor, teeth gritting together in a grimace that bears the shade of a grin. Kise’s brow furrows with brief displeasure, before his juvenile ego paves way to a smile; the light that trickles out of his skin seeps a sudden lightness in Aomine’s bones, and he finds himself tracing the side of Kise’s mouth in thought.

Say, he says. _How would you feel about taking over this school?_

A flash of bewilderment crosses Kise’s face, but his eyes narrow in sharp recognition; a wryness sets in his smile, and he leans in with an impish little laugh.

_What, you and me?_

Aomine shrugs, fighting back a familiar pang of self-consciousness before it makes him regret his words.

_You, and me, and the giant. Hell, maybe even Wakamatsu, if he stops being so noisy._

Kise laughs again, and it’s hard to tell whether he thinks Aomine is speaking in earnest or not; in the wavering half-light, Aomine isn’t sure of that himself.

(But for the first time in years, he also feels like he wants to fight  _for_  something; and whether it’s school domination, the remnants of his future, or simply this mercurial kid who cries and screams before he ever gives up, that hope suddenly seems like it’s worth everything Aomine never thought he could afford.)

_Sure. But we should try and see if we can recruit the phantom._

Aomine’s shoulders buckle with laughter upon the sound of Kise’s response. He reaches out to twist Kise’s nose between his fingers, letting out a snort at the yelp that ensues.

_That’s just another dumb rumour. There’s no ghost in the library._

Wriggling out of his grasp, Kise almost elbows him in the face. Aomine has seen that pout a thousand times before, but never as unguarded as now; something about the softness that traces the harsh edges makes him instinctively tug at Kise’s hip.

_Fine_ , he breathes out.  _First thing tomorrow morning, we’ll go search for your ghost._

The shadowed bruises on Kise’s jaw linger with peculiar contrast to the youthful excitement that lights up on his face, and his energy is contagious enough to render the rest of Aomine’s rehearsed self-awareness obsolete.

He’s used to that, surely, in the endless hours they have spent repeating this cycle, each contusion more precious than the one before; but when he leans over to seize Kise in an abrupt, clumsy kiss, what Aomine remembers feeling is first and foremost  _surprise––_

because the bruises no longer hurt.

\- fin

**Author's Note:**

> I had a lot of fun with this world, so who knows, maybe I'll do something more with it one day.


End file.
